Target
by harprani
Summary: AU What if Basta's aim hadn't been perfect, and his dagger hadn't killed Farid, just injured him. Would he survive. This story starts near the end of Inkspell. Doesn't take Inkdeath into account. Please R&R, it's my first Inkheart fic, be nice!
1. Heartbeat

*_The first chapter is going to be tiny but they'll get longer for sure. None of my stories have any sort of slash in them_

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters or phrases from Inkheart.

"_Dustfinger saw the knife go into the thin back. He caught the boy before he fell to the ground, but he was already dead…"_

Everything seemed to fade into the background, unimportant. The pounding of the rain, beating down steadily. The hissing of the fire. The shouts and screams of dying men. The smoky haze that stung his eyes as he stared down at the boy.

The boy… with shaking fingers he pulled out the dagger embedded in the thin back. Meggie was sobbing beside him still clutching the boy's hand.

Dustfinger turned around. There, standing behind him with a wide grin on his face and a maniac glint in his eye was Basta.

Dustfinger put a hand to his face, tracing the scars, it was Basta who had made them, Basta who had killed the boy, Clouddancer, and many others.

The boy's last moments kept playing themselves again and again in his head. The boy talking to Meggie, Basta aiming the knife, the warning he had tried to shout before the bitter wind had carried his words away.

He took a staggering step towards where Basta was standing feeling like he should do something anything to make him feel the same pain that he, Dustfinger was feeling.

The very idea was laughable, Basta had never loved anyone. Part of Dustfinger pitied him another was envious.

Everything seemed hazy, unreal, as if this was just another of his nightmares. In his chest there was a dull, throbbing pain. Was this what it felt like when your heart breaks? Dustfinger felt that it must.

He had been so careful, so guarded with who he cared about, for exactly this reason. "You're a fool Dustfinger," he said to himself. He had known, love someone and you're vulnerable, love someone and you'll get hurt. But he had ended up loving the boy like a son all the same.

A sudden cry startled him out of his thoughts. He looked up from the trampled, muddy ground to see Basta lying on in the dirt, and Silvertongue pulling his sword from Basta's dead body.

Silvertongue, who's daughter was sobbing her heart out clinging to the boy's body as if she would never let it go, who had never raised a sword in his life before this day never mind killed a man. He really was the Bluejay of the stories today.

He stumbled back to where Meggie was standing with the boy's body. His dark humor was gone the instant he caught sight of the boy, pale as the ghosts he was so afraid of, eyes empty without any of the joy they had held in life, and always fidgeting hands now still.

Resa had come towards Meggie trying to comfort her and he once again held Farid.

Suddenly he heard a slight fluttering noise. The sound continued frantic and unsteady, faint, but still there. A heartbeat?


	2. Chance

Alive, alive, alive. The boy was alive.

Hands quavering he turned the child over; his eyes were now closed. He had been wrong, there was still life in those eyes.

Meggie's sobbing could still be heard but Dustfinger was too filled with joy to notice.

"Dustfinger?" there was a question in Resa's her voice, as if she could sense something was different, something in him; the broken piece of his heart had mended.

"He's alive Resa, though perhaps not for much longer," he whispered.

Meggie turned to him, bewildered, with tears still streaming down her face asking her unspoken question for her. Without a word Dustfinger placed her hand carefully against the boy's breast, over the place where his heart was, and she felt the beat.

A smile bloomed on her wet face, but there was no time to be lost. He scooped the boy up, how he wished that he hadn't pulled the knife out here! Here in the muddy field where infection could so easily set in, and blood couldn't be staunched. The boy was already bleeding too much, far too much. If he had known the boy was alive he never would have pulled out the knife.

He took off his cloak and wrapped it around the boy, so that only the mostly dry inside touched him. It would offer more protection then nothing and hopefully prevent the blood from flowing too freely.

"I'll take him to Roxane; she'll be able to help him. He'll die out here, if he stays. Tell the Black Prince," he called as he turned. His voice was unfathomably steady although terrifying fear for the boy was coming back in spasms.

"Dustfinger! The fire." Resa's voice brought him back to reality, he'd been so worried about Farid he'd forgotten about the fight. They would need fire to win and loosing would end in the deaths of the Prince, and Resa, and Silvertongue's daughter too, not to mention Silvertongue himself.

Cursing he glanced around and he finally realized the fight was over. The remaining men led by Basta were running back into the forest that they had taken refuge in before the ambush. Several of the prince's men that had been left mostly unscathed were chasing them, but most were trying to help with the wounded and dead.

Yet the raging flames had not yet been quenched by the rain, as if they had sensed Dustfinger's sadness and anger and perhaps worry most of all. People were attempting leaps across the fire now, and others were shying from it, it would only be in the way.

Yes, it was time for the fire to sleep. He raised his voice so it pierced through the noise, speaking the words of fire that no human would be able to hear through the wind, but the fire would and the flames would obey. It didn't take much; his job earlier had been much more difficult with the rain singing the fire to sleep. He had cursed the rain then, but now he was glad.

"Tell the Prince." He called out once more. "That is if the Prince isn't dead," he added silently to himself. _Heavens, stop being so cynical, he's fought on the right side on all battles so far. _He laughed quietly although the thought of it had frozen his heart. He was very glad when he caught the glimpse of a black face among the chaos as he whisked the boy away.

The quiet croaking of his own name made Dustfinger look down; the boy's eyelids were fluttering. He really did have long eyelashes, the occasional stranger or even robber would comment, in the latter's case tease the boy, who would flush red with anger. It amused Dustfinger which angered had Farid even more.

"Dustfinger," the boy spoke again. How childlike he sounded, so afraid while he was usually so fearless, a different fear then that of the djinns and ghosts conjured up from his imagination. The fear of the unknown, the uncertain, of mortality, of death. A fear the boy had never before felt, but he, Dustfinger had bore its oppressiveness so many times before.

"_There's a chance, only a chance that the boy will survive."_ He had told himself. But his heart wouldn't listen, it had begun to hope without his permission from the moment he heard the beat in the boy's chest. _"But when has your heart ever listened? And where would you be if it had?"_

A chance.

* * *

Meggie savagely wiped her cheeks and scrubbed at her eyes, _I will not cry, not until he's dead, not when there's still hope._ But rain kept splattering her face and no amount of rubbing would stop it.

Resa was still staring after Dustfinger who had disappeared into the side of the forest that the Black Prince had leapt out of with his bear as if he himself were a creature of the forest.

"Was he really alive Meggie?"

"Yes, yes he is, I heard his heartbeat Resa!" She threw her arms around her mother. Her veins seemed to be singing with happiness, so different then the pain.

But fear was coming back, the fear that had been in the back of her mind since she had read Resa's note. At that time it was for her parents, but today she had worried for Farid too. _And with good reason_. Afterall, he still might die, never to kiss her again or laugh with her or smile. Words, words could save him, thought, the same way they healed Mo.

"I'll ask Fenoglio to write words to save him. He will if I ask him." She had told Resa, as the other woman had pulled away.

Resa's answering smile was gentle, but uncertain, "Don't…" She stumbled here, finally saying, "he was badly hurt Meggie."

"What do you mean?" panic and pain was rising through her once again.

"Just don't expect too much," was all Resa would say.

"But there's a chance," Meggie had insisted.

"Yes, yes there is." But Resa's tone was one of doubt.

Meggie was still chanting those words to herself as she prepared to march through the forest to the robber's hideout. _A chance, a chance, a chance.  
_

_I finally updated! There was a mistake with the summary, sorry, this story ignores Inkdeath, not Inkheart. Reviews please!__  
_


	3. Journey

The boy had a fever.

Dustfinger could feel the unnatural heat without even touching him. Infection must have already set in, and the thought made him groan aloud.

The boy was sleeping now, although not very peacefully. He had been confused, "Dustfinger? What..What happened?" he had asked like a child waking up from a long sleep, wondering what they had missed.

Dustfinger hadn't explained, he couldn't bring himself to, "Shh, save your strength," was all he had said.

Surprisingly enough that was all it took. The boy had closed his eyes once more, obviously exhausted.

How long the journey seemed to be now! So much longer then it felt when they had traveled through the forest that morning to get to the stony roadside.

He pushed his way through the maze of trees and underbrush, careful to keep Farid's legs from scraping the rough branches. The last thing the boy needed was scraped up calves to go with his bleeding back.

The boy was shivering. It was still raining and the air seemed to be getting colder. He wished the journey would be over, that they were both warm and dry, and Farid's wound could be treated, as well as his fever.

The boy whimpered in his sleep, turning towards Dustfinger as if to steal some of his warmth. The child was obviously cold, and Basta's knife had no doubt hurt, but there was nothing he could do except walk on, murmuring useless words of comfort as he went.

* * *

The world was both hot and cold. Farid could feel nothing else. What had happened? He remembered that the rain had been putting the fire out…he had been holding Meggie's hand… Did they win? Was the fight still being fought against Basta's men? Why couldn't he remember?

But there was another sensation, pain, it was sharp, throbbing, pulsing through his whole body from his back. The pain made it hard to think, but gradually he became aware of another presence, one close to him, and when he opened his eyes he could see the fringe of Dustfinger's cloak, for some reason wrapped around him.

This was comforting. If Dustfinger was calm he knew he was safe. They seemed to be in the forest, moving, since greenery was flashing by, but Farid himself hadn't moved his legs. It took a moment before he realized that the faint rocking he was feeling was because he was being carried. He couldn't remember ever being carried before, perhaps when he was very small, but he didn't remember it.

What was going on? He tried to ask Dustfinger and was shocked by how frail his own voice sounded. When Dustfinger had told him to rest it was in tone he had never heard him use before, gentle, as if he were talking to a wounded animal, and worried too.

What was wrong?

But he was so very tired, and his back hurt. Perhaps he would sleep for awhile, just to gain back his strength, and then he would badger Dustfinger until he got so annoyed that he told him everything. Yes, yes he would do that…

The boy closed his eyes.

* * *

The Black Prince sighed, three of their own dead. But at least the prisoners had all been rescued successfully. And the man that had been taken for the Bluejay was safe; he could see him now, hugging his daughter and wife. Comforting them.

Several men were already preparing to carry the dead back to be buried. As far as he knew only one of those men had a family, it was better than it could have been at least. But he wasn't looking forward to speaking with the man's wife and perhaps even children, who now had no father.

He knew something about growing up without a father. Without parents. Both of his own had died when he was too young to even have any clear memory of them, it was the same with Dustfinger. All he remembered was the vague feeling of being watched over, of being safe.

But that was long ago.

He looked through the throng of people, absently scratching the bear's neck, as he searched for the familiar scarred face whose owner he had known since childhood. Where was he? A hint of fear was creeping up in his chest. The fire had saved them, could the firedancer be gone?

The flames were extinguished now, a far cry from the roaring fiend that had been a friend to them and enemy to the Adderhead's men. For the troop Basta had led were the Adderhead's men, even if the Silver Prince hadn't claimed them. Who else could have given the orders? Basta? He didn't have many friends who would agree to follow him, crazy as he was, but the Adderhead had many servants.

Where was Dustfinger?

Cold wisps of worry were creeping through him. The firedancer wasn't dead. Of that he was certain. He himself had searched through the bodies of the injured and dead, lying on the stone road, both friends and enemies. Most of the injured could walk, though they would needed support. That made things simpler.

But where was Dustfinger?

"Prince? Black Prince?" the tentative, timid voice startled him, and he turned toward the source. A girl was standing there, the daughter of the man taken for the Bluejay, he realized. And her mother, the woman who said she was Dustfinger's friend, was behind her.

"Yes" he replied. The girl looked uncertain, but her mother seemed calm, perhaps she felt comfortable in his presence because he had helped her in the cave, when she had so desperately defended her husband. It was she who spoke.

"Farid, the boy that's always with Dustfinger, was very badly injured. Dustfinger left to take him to Roxane only a few minutes ago. He wanted us to tell you." Farid, the boy who followed Dustfinger around like an overgrown puppy and the only one whom the firedancer had agreed to teach his art. He was good at it, though still learning.

"I suppose we'll see him there. Roxane will have a lot of work to do, many were wounded." The woman nodded and turned, presumably to help with the injured, beckoning to her daughter as she went. But the girl hesitated, worry was written on her face. Hadn't she been the one Dustfinger had teased the boy about? It appeared that she loved Farid back.

"They'll be fine," he assured her, "Dustfinger will keep the boy safe. Even if his face seems cold, his heart is far from it." The girl looked like that didn't reassure her, but she simply nodded slowly and turned away.

But the Prince smiled at the thought his assurance had brought up. Dustfinger had always been good at masking his thoughts, even when they were children. But he wasn't nearly as good at guarding his heart, no matter how hard he tried, and all the wild creatures, fairies, nymphs, birds, knew it. They trusted him the way they trusted no other without him even helping them in some way, like the Prince himself had done with the bear, but he helped them all the same.

The children knew it too. The boy loved Dustfinger like he was his own father, and the Prince remembered how when Brianna was a child and Rosanna was alive, they would chase after him as he left on some journey or other.

A man called his name, and he turned. It was Snapper, kneeling over someone lying in the dust. "This journey will be a difficult one," he thought grimly to himself.

And he headed off towards the two men, glancing at the sky, the clouds hid the sun, but the world was still darkening; they would have leave soon.

* * *

Roxane fidgeted in the depth of the mines. She was alone in the tunnels except for the two martens that she didn't like, and the inkweaver. But the man famous for his words was fast asleep and snoring, and she didn't think he'd be very good company anyway.

She knew that Dustfinger had tried to persuade the boy to stay with her, and perhaps his company would be better then the martens, but she doubted it.

Dustfinger had been worried about the boy, she could tell that much. From the anxiety in his eyes when she saw him glancing at the child out the corner of his eye when he thought she wasn't looking and his dreams.

He had always had bad dreams, nightmares full of fear for those that he loved, and she had comforted him, whenever they were together at least. Rarely did he tell her who or what he dreamed about, but she had become good at guessing.

Last night it had been the boy, he hadn't woken her, but she could tell by the unobtrusive glances filled with worry he had sent his way.

The boy, Farid, the name was strange to her tongue, foreign, but what did she expect? He came from a foreign place, perhaps farther away then she could ever imagine, or maybe same one that Dustfinger had disappeared into for so long. They hadn't told her.

Dustfinger still hadn't even told her where he'd been for so many years, hadn't given her a straight answer.

But she loved him all the same. Her heart was incorrigible. Her daughter's heart was harder, as young as she was. Perhaps it was growing up without a father that had made it that way, but Brianna loved Dustfinger as much as Roxane did, even though she wouldn't speak a word to him.

She missed her children. How was Jehan? Was he worried about her? He wouldn't worry much about Dustfinger, except that he knew he made her happy, and might worry about him for her sake. He hardly knew him. But at least she could be sure that he was safe, she trusted the friend she had left him with, she wouldn't have done so otherwise.

No, Jehan's safety didn't worry her any more than usual, but Brianna's did. Nothing had been sure in the castle since Cosimo's death, but it became worse when the word spread about the Laughing Prince. Not that it was any surprise.

Yet what was she to do? Brianna was even more proud than she herself was, and wouldn't listen to a word of advice from her mother, and not to mention her father. She had been so distraught with Cosimo's death. Roxane had begged the girl to leave with her, but Brianna had refused, even though Cosimo was gone.

No, there was nothing she could do for her daughter, especially not here, and she couldn't bear to allow Dustfinger to go off on his own again, even surrounded with the Black Prince's men, and the Black Prince himself.

Not again, she wouldn't sit uselessly on the sidelines expecting her husband to come home safe and sound like she had done a thousand times before, waiting. Never again, not unless she would be of much better use somewhere else. It would have to be much better. She had promised herself that the night he returned, returned to her after ten years.

Gwin was hissing at the new marten, Jink, she thought his name was. He was Dustfinger's marten now; he had given Gwin to the boy. Farid. Was he Dustfinger's son? The way Jehan was hers.

He didn't look anything like him, but the way he played with fire reminded her of her husband so much that she couldn't help believing it, no matter how vehemently Dustfinger denied it.

It was for that reason she disliked the boy, she knew it was jealousy, but she couldn't help it. The boy was jealous of her as well. It amused Roxane, she supposed he wanted all Dustfinger's attention. Children always wanted their parent's attention.

And even if Farid wasn't Dustfinger's son, the boy acted like he was his father, and Dustfinger treated him like a son.

Thump, thump, thump. She froze. The sound was gentle, but it echoed softly, undoubtedly the sound of someone walking. Walking towards her.

Her heart raced, fear stabbing through her coldly, like the steel of a dagger. She reached for her knife, hidden in her dress, and grasped its wooden hilt firmly, and wondered if she ought to wake Fenoglio.

Had the Adderhead remembered the tunnel and sent a spy? It was doubtful, but with the sound of a single person moving through the tunnels, her mind kept thinking up foolish scenarios.

"Roxane?"

She knew that voice, knew it better then her own. How many times had he called her name? Roxane didn't know. All she knew was her husband's journey was over, at least for today.

He had come alone, but she didn't care why, his journey was over, he had come back to her.

She got up and walked to the entrance of the mine to go greet him.


End file.
